


In My Time of Living

by MichiganBlackhawk



Series: Trio AU [12]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-11
Updated: 2014-06-11
Packaged: 2018-02-04 07:25:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1770670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MichiganBlackhawk/pseuds/MichiganBlackhawk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Azazael are gone; Sam, Dean, and Jayme head to Bobby's to figure out where to go from here. Takes place immediately after Time Is Tight Part Three. Spoilers up through the end of season one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Bobby Singer’s first thought was “My God, something happened to Sam.”

Dean was getting out of the passenger side, moving stiff and slow as if he were a movie zombie. But then the girl—Jayme—got out of the back seat. The thought that it might be John driving came to him as he held his breath, waiting to see who got out from behind the wheel.

Only one person he knew was that tall. Sam.

No one else got out of the car, and from the expressions on the boys’ faces he could tell what had happened.

He knew something big had been coming, with more and more demon possessions cropping up, and it would have been clear to the blindest hunter alive that John and his sons and their strange new friend were in the middle of it.

He’d been around long enough to know when it wasn’t smart to ask a bunch of questions. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t ever going to ask. There was something off about Jayme, a dull aching kind of suspicion that started when he’d first met her; she seemed too slender and delicate to be running around with Sam and Dean, but it didn’t take long to notice that she she didn’t move or act like a typical girl, which meant she was a hunter and that was okay, but he knew more than a few female hunters and while they were just as fierce as their male counterparts, there was a different quality, a high level of tension that wasn’t there with her. She didn’t look the same.

Not that there had been any time for explanation when they arrived beyond hurried introductions; John was being held by demons and that had been the entire focus for all three of them, so suspicions that weren’t immediately important could wait. John’s sons were young but they weren’t stupid, so whoever this girl was, she had earned their trust and for the time being that was good enough for him.

Of course when the shit hit the fan and a demon had come into his house, tossing them around before getting caught in his devil’s trap, he hadn’t had the time or brain cells to form questions. When they’d exorcised the demon and the new girl had pulled out a smartphone and what looked like a bunch of fat markers to apparently try to heal the human host, it seemed better to keep quiet and let them work, even if the effort ended up being futile.

They came up to the house with the slow steps of people who were completely numb, exhausted, or both. Dean’s left arm was in a sling, but he couldn’t see any bandages or a cast. Sam had the remnants of injury on his face, and the girl had some impressive purple marks on her shapely neck. Questions all fought to be the first out, but their faces stayed his tongue.

These were people who had just taken a mortal blow and still hadn’t quite figured out where they were. He held the door for them. “C’mon, get in here,” he said, trying not to sound as impatient as he felt.

“Thanks, Bobby,” Sam said, sounding as listless and exhausted as he looked.

Dean and the girl said nothing as they followed him in, she at least nodding her head in acknowledgment as they passed.

They went through the kitchen to the study, which was a little neater than when they’d left it, with some of the massive piles of books moved away and the couch actually unearthed. Dean sat down, wincing. He waited until Sam, Jayme, and Bobby had lighted. “Okay, Bobby, let’s hear it.”

“Hear what?”

“What’s the matter with you idjits running off like that so are you gonna sit there all day starin’ at me like a lump of broccoli or are you gonna tell me what the hell happened?”

Bobby just looked at him. “Well? Are you gonna?”

“Dad’s gone,” Sam said. “So’s the demon.”

“What?” Bobby said, making it clear that he’d heard the words just fine but was having trouble processing them.

Sam told the story, starting with them leaving Bobby’s. Neither Dean nor Jayme said anything. He just listened, letting Sam get everything out.

“So did you give him a hunter’s wake?”

“Of course we did, Bobby. We’re not stupid,” Dean said.

“Never said you were—this time. So—what now?”

“No idea,” Sam said. “Can’t help but think about what the demon meant about ‘the children like me.’”

“Got a bigger problem than that,” Bobby said.

“What?”

He nodded to Jayme. “Her.”

Both Sam and Dean stiffened. “What do you mean, ‘her,’” Dean said, sitting up before his shoulder stopped him.

“Dean, I wasn’t born yesterday. Even without those little gadgets of hers there’s somethin’ different about her. You mind tellin’ me what it is?”

He watched the anger flit across both boys’ faces.

“Guys, relax,” Jayme said. “Though I appreciate the chivalry. Mr. Singer, I’m an alien.”

“A what?”

“I know, nothing as exotic as a vampire or specter or vetala,” she said, giving a slight shudder at the last one. “You established before that I’m not a demon, and I’ll submit to any other tests you have, but I’m not human. I wasn’t born on his planet.”

Finally Bobby spoke. “Is this some kind of stupid prank?”

“Any other time I’d bet on it,” Dean said. “But frankly I’m too damn tired to even think of anything like that. It’s the truth.”

“You’re an alien.”

“Yes. Sorry about not being little, green, or a man.”

“So. Tell me the story.”

“Got a few hours?”

He gestured. “I got all the time in the world, seems like.”

He listened again as she spoke, laying out a long history he was shocked to discover he’d been unaware of. John knowing about these aliens and keeping it to himself did not surprise him one bit. That John and Sam and Dean trusted her did. Reckless idjits or not, trust was something they didn’t give lightly. “Hell of a story.”

“Don’t I know it.”

“Don’t suppose you have any proof.”

“Well, I do and don’t. You could probably interpret it as me being a monster if you wanted, and I don’t have a ship or anything. You saw my medical tech.”

“Bobby, look. She’s okay. You have my word,” Dean said.

“Dean, it’s not your word I’m worried about.”

“Then what is it?”

“You ever consider what might happen if someone finds out about her?”

“Bobby, her people have been here for thousands of years,” Sam said. “They’re not afraid of us.”

“Maybe they should be.”

Both Sam and Dean turned to Jayme. “I don’t want to sound arrogant, but that is not going to happen. You’re not helpless, by any means, but you’re no match for us.”

“Oh really.”

“Yeah, Bobby. Really,” Dean said. “Jayme, you might as well show him.”

She looked around warily. “Where’s your nearest gun?”

Bobby almost snorted. “I’m not about to tell you that. It’s close enough.”

“Fine. Just don’t shoot me.”

If he’d been drunk he’d have thought someone was playing a really elaborate joke on him, and not even one that he could figure out. She just . . . grew, swelling up until she was seven feet tall and looking like something out of the Van Helsing movie that had come on the TV one night after he’d fallen asleep, awakening not to the Western he’d been watching, but a nearly-naked Hugh Jackman changing into something very similar to what was now standing before him.

Similar and yet not. He was a hunter of the supernatural, but he’d also hunted enough normal Earth animals to recognize a savage or wild gaze when he saw it, and now, despite the claws, fangs, and long tail, the eyes that met his were just as warm and intelligent as the girl’s. “Shootin’ you ‘d be some kind of sin, I’m sure.”

The muzzle parted slightly, displaying some very white, very sharp teeth. “That’s one of the nicest things a human’s ever said to me.”

“What . . . are you?”

“She’s a neromancer,” Sam said. “And she’s with us.”

Bobby looked at Dean, surprised to see him with the same determined look. Sam saw things in nuance, understood the gray areas of life more than Dean, who tended to see things as one or the other. “Yeah, I know how it looks. But she’s fought and bled for us and that makes her part of this. I know other people won’t understand but you will.”

Bobby stood up, going over to the huge . . . thing standing in front of him. She turned her hand, showing him a huge palm and fingers tipped with powerful claws. He paused, then touched it, surprised by the heavy velvet texture, the warmth, so much bigger and more powerful than any human hand when she shook his, moving with obvious care to make sure she didn’t hurt him. He moved to grip her forearm, then paused.

“Go ahead,” she said, her voice deep and rich. “I won’t hurt you.”

He touched her arm, feeling the warmth and impossible strength there, like grabbing the forearm of a tiger. The short, sleek fur on her arms grew shaggier around her shoulders where her mane took over, the waves of fur interrupted only by a ring of fabric around her neck. He looked her in the eye, his brain trying to figure out if he was looking at a bear or a lion and how she was both and neither and so much more.

It was the look. The actual amused look in the eyes and the honest-to-God sardonic grin on the muzzle that was a foot over his head. He let her hand go, backing up. “This is . . . crazy.”

“Since when have any of our lives been anything but crazy?” Dean said. “I know it’s a mindfuck and it’s going to take some time to get used to, but she’s okay, Bobby. You can trust her.”

“No, Dean, he can’t,” Jayme said, cutting Bobby off as he opened his mouth to speak. “He doesn’t know me, and it’s not fair to ask him to.”

“Hey, do you mind? I got a mouth of my own, thanks!” Bobby snapped. “Now look—it’s all very well that your dad knew about them and that you know, but what happens if you run into someone who doesn’t know and might not be as understanding as me?”

“We make sure they don’t find out,” Dean said.

“How?”

“You just let me worry about that, boyos,” Jayme said. “I’ve been at this way longer than you.”

“All right, all right!” Bobby said. “I’m just sayin’ you wanna be careful.”

“So you’re okay with her?” Sam asked.

“No, I’m not, but what choice do I have?” Bobby looked up at Jayme. “You mind changin’ back now? My neck’s starting to cramp.”

“We mean are you okay with her staying here,” Dean said. “Because if not, we’re leaving too.”

Bobby looked from Dean to Jayme, who had just finished her transformation. She was blushing, ducking her head down slightly.

“Long as she don’t shed on anything, she’s welcome to stay,” Bobby said, sounding not at all sure about it. “Room’s right where you boys left it. Go on up.”

As Sam and Jayme headed out to the car for their things, Bobby stopped Dean. “Tell me you’re sure about this and I’ll let it go.”

“Bobby, right now there’s only two people I trust more than her. You and Sam. Clear enough?”


	2. Chapter 2

“I don’t think your uncle likes me much,” Jayme said once they were alone.

The bedroom on the second floor, first door on the left, was one that Bobby had maintained for Sam and Dean since they were small children. There was never any way to tell when John was going to swing by and drop them off, so he’d always kept the room with its twin beds close together ready for them. Now was no different.

“Don’t worry about it, Jayme,” Sam said. “He’s always like that, even with us.”

“Yeah, Bobby’s been a grouch ever since we’ve known him,” Dean said, slipping his right arm out of his jacket and easing the other out of the sling.

“How’s the arm?” Jayme said, looking at Sam and mouthing the word “Fine” just as Dean said it. She reached behind him, lifting his t-shirt.

“Hey, what are you doing?”

“I’m taking off your shirt so I can see how your shoulder’s doing, now cooperate.”

“I told you it’s fine,” he said, nonetheless yielding to her. She didn’t say anything, peeling back the light bandages on his shoulder and laying her palm on the flesh underneath. It was warm, but not hot. She drew her fingers up, gently touching in several spots and listening to his reactions. Pain, but not severe.

“How’m I doing, doc?” he whispered.

“Coming along fine, so far as I can tell. But you’re a little swollen and I know you’re hurting.”

“It’s not too bad.”

“Uh huh.” She pressed just a little, listening to his louder exhalation. “Liar.” She reached into her pocket, taking out the small case Silensherra had given her—a post-surgery kit containing painkillers and a few other medications “just in case.” Taking out a small, round, silky envelope of softly glowing fluid, she placed it on his collarbone, then pressed with her palm, her body heat dissolving the exterior and sending soothing warmth through his injured shoulder.

He reached up, covering her hand with his. “What is that?”

“Painkiller. It’ll help with the swelling, too—absorbing it through the skin is more effective.”

“You’ll just do anything to see me with my shirt off.”

“What can I say, Dean. You know me too well.”

“You know, I can leave the room if you two wanna be alone,” Sam said, ducking the pillow Jayme threw at him.

“How’s the eye, Sammy?”

“It’s good,” Sam said. “Swelling’s gone and my vision’s fine.” He watched as Jayme lifted Dean’s arm, rotating it slowly as her other hand stayed on his shoulder. It was still hard to reconcile the smooth skin with the butchery he’d seen only the night before. Had it only been the night before?

“You’re doing fine, Dean,” she said. “The swelling should be gone by tomorrow and your shoulder’s in perfect form. I’m . . . I’m so sorry this happened.”

“It’s okay, Jayme,” Dean said. “You didn’t do it.”

“No, but I was the one who taunted that thing. I thought it was going to go after me, and I was ready, you know? And then it—it turned to you and I—”

“Hey,” he said, grabbing her hand. “You didn’t hurt me, and thanks to you and Len I’m still here, okay? So forget about it.”

“No, Dean. I can’t. I almost got you killed.”

“Jaymes—” He looked up and into her eyes, registering the emotion there. “Listen, uh, didn’t you tell me that your people are all about focusing on what is and not worrying about the might-have-beens and stuff?”

Sam blinked. “Since when have you ever paid attention to anything?”

“Shut up.”

“I might have mentioned it, yeah,” she said.

“So follow your own advice. What happened is done and over with. I’m not mad at you. So let it go, huh?”

“Okay. But I owe you that pain in return.”

“What?”

“I think she’s saying that you get a free shot at her, Dean,” Sam said.

“A free—I don’t want a free shot!”

“That’s not your choice to make,” Jayme said, backing off the bed and taking off her coat. “The debt’s there whether you want it there or not.”

“Jayme, I am not gonna . . . what am I gonna do?”

“At some point in the future you are going to take out your anger on me in the manner of your choosing,” she said, casually brushing lint from her sleeve.

“I am?”

“Yes, you are, and I’m going to take it, because I deserve it.”

“Then I just won’t lose my temper with you, that’s all.”

Sam almost cackled. “Oh, that I’d like to see.”

 

 

It took a long time to get to sleep that night.

The bed was small and reminded her that Dean was not a small man, and his injury meant sleeping on his side was unlikely. After she’d washed up and changed clothes she returned, finding that he’d scooted over as far as he could, leaving her just enough room at his side. She smiled at the gesture, feeling once again the peculiar surge of affection that was as painful as it was pleasurable.

As she crawled under the covers he moved his right arm out, holding her shoulders as she got settled. When she was still, on her side facing him, he moved his hand up, pulling her hair away from her face and stroking it for a moment, his eyes still closed. Then it slid back down to her shoulders, holding her close, just one friend comforting another. She released a sigh that was more of a silent exhalation, closing her eyes.

She fought not to give in to restlessness even as her position grew less comfortable, the thoughts that she’d been pushing to the side coming forward now that she was still.

 

_She was back in the cabin, pinned to the wall. Dean was there, bleeding from his chest, begging his father not to let the demon kill him. But this time it didn’t stop, not until there was blood flowing from his chin, trickling down his neck, staining his shirt dark, mingling with the blood flowing down to pool on the floor, and still it didn’t stop._

_She tried to scream, tried to move. Sam turned to face her, blinking, his eyes turning black. “It’s no use,” he said. “You think you’re strong enough to stop this?” He laughed, the sound cruel and jarring, so unlike the Sam she knew._

_“You always were weak.” It wasn’t Adha’s voice, but it was his words, coming from John Winchester . . . no, not John. The yellow-eyed thing that had taken him over. “Always afraid, even among these . . . puny things. I’m very disappointed in you, Jhamera. You’re no daughter of mine.”_

_“You’re not my father!” she snarled. “You’re just some . . . thing!”_

_“You thought coming here would take the fear away.” It stepped closer to her—behind it, Dean fell to the floor in a boneless heap and was still; Jayme fought not to look. “A planet full of things that can’t hurt you. Sorry to break it to you, sweetheart,” it said, using John’s hand to stroke the side of her face, a move from which she found herself unable to pull away. “But you are just as weak as they are.”_

_“What do you want from me?”_

_“You?” The demon stepped back, the look of amusement not just on John’s face, but in its eyes. “I don’t want anything from you. This was never about you. In fact . . . I have no use for you.”_

 

She snapped awake, the sharp crack of her neck breaking chasing her back to consciousness. She was in bed next to Dean, in Bobby’s house, with Sam asleep behind her and no demon in the room.

As her breathing returned to normal she opened her eyes, feeling something warm and wet on her hand. The sight of blood sent her upright, high-pitched shrieks tunneling up her throat and coming out in dry, whispery exhalations, her eyes bulging from her head as she raised her hand up, looking at the blood coating it, blood coming from Dean’s abdomen, where something had torn into him, shredding his flesh and tearing deeply into his intestines and whether he’d awakened in time to watch his life’s blood seep out wasn’t clear but he was dead, his shoulder was torn open again, the wound was open but not as deep he’d been killed by whatever had clawed him open and it was her, she had done it—

 

 

In the dark of Bobby’s actual house, Jayme’s eyes shot open as a low moan escaped her. She pulled the covers back, looking with relief at Dean’s unmarred torso. Drawing her hand back, she slid off the bed and out from under his arm.

Despite the old, creaky staircase, her steps were silent as she slipped downstairs and out the front door, panting in the cold night air that chilled her when it hit the fine sheen of sweat covering her body. She sat down on the warped porch step, resting her forehead on her palms as the tears came in earnest.

Minutes passed before an old throw slipped around her shoulders, Bobby dropping down next to her. “Figured you’d need that; ain’t exactly the middle of winter but it’s also not exactly Palm Springs out here. And judgin’ from your fur, you’re not from a cold climate.”

“No, I’m not.”

Instead of asking questions, he just sat, waiting. Her trembles eased until she looked less like a terrified child. “Bad dream?”

She snorted. “That’s like saying the Titanic was a little boat.”

“Musta been one bitch of a nightmare to rattle someone like you.”

“Someone like me?”

“Someone who’s got a seven-foot wall of muscle inside her.”

She smiled, but it was bitter and without humor. “Might doesn’t make bravery.”

“Just what did happen in that cabin?”

“I . . . I don’t know. Something I wasn’t ready for.”

“Honey, none of us are ever ready.”

“No, and I understand that, but . . . I wasn’t ready for that thing, that demon, to know things about me that I haven’t told anyone.”

“You’re sure? You know, demons do lie, but the truth is there are times they know too damn much.”

She held her hands to her face as if praying. “It knew. Something I discovered when I got here. That suddenly I was the biggest and strongest thing around.” She huddled into the blanket. “Even if it was a secret, I still knew.”

“So we’re just . . . what? Little playthings to you?”

“No! God, no! Listen, Mr. Singer. All joking aside, I have never looked at you as less than me. We’re both sentient beings—we have intelligence and consciousness and we’re self-aware. I wouldn’t have been allowed to come here if I thought of you as anything less. But you are different, and like it or not, I’m bigger, stronger, and faster. And that’s . . . something I never felt before. I’ve told Sam and Dean this, but I spent most of my life being bullied by my father and sister. I always had to be on guard, always had to be ready to be attacked or yelled at or punished. Even after I got out of there, I was still afraid. Always looking for an attack, always shying away from anyone I thought could hurt me.”

Bobby nodded. “And then you came here, and you were the biggest dog in the yard.”

She nodded. “Yeah. Didn’t matter that I’d never hurt anyone on purpose and that I’d never bully anyone and that—shit, that just about every human I’ve ever known would never even _know_ about me, but it’s the first time I’ve ever felt safe. Just knowing nothing could touch me was enough, I thought. And then I met them.”

“And that feeling of safety vanished, right?”

“Not at first. I’ve seen plenty—vampires, a vetala, a vanir scarecrow thing, a rawhead, daevas, a tulpa, even a ghost truck. None of that scared me. If anything I had to hold myself back and not get too excited.” She smiled grimly, telling him of a job in Minnesota, when she’d turned deadly fear back on a group of hunters who kidnapped humans—and had made the fatal mistake of kidnapping Sam. Bobby had to admit the mental image of being stalked by something that looked like her in her other form was disconcerting enough for even the toughest hunter.

“I was plenty pissed—you should have seen the burn on Dean’s shoulder—but I didn’t lose control. I’ll cop to taking plenty of pleasure in it, but truth is none of them were in any real danger from me, no matter how it might have looked. That’s part of the secret; you make it look real enough and the fear is real. But then the demon. And it’s just . . . all my strength, all my power and fighting skills, useless. And then it’s like . . . it could see that, and bam—I was that scared child again.” 

Bobby was silent, just staring at Jayme for a minute. “You’re damn sure not a monster. None of them would ever talk like that.”

“Thank you for that. I thought I’d have to do a lot more to convince you.”

“Me, no. But you gotta understand there are other hunters out there that might not be as reasonable. And it’s not you I’m worried about.”

“I can protect them.”

“Oh, I got no doubt you’d gladly take a bullet for them or tear apart anything stupid enough to go after them, but you can’t be everywhere at once.”

“I know what your point is. But either way they’re in danger. I haven’t made it this far without knowing how to blend in. I’ll convince who I have to convince and those who don’t want to listen can just stay out of my way.”

“So if someone out there decides that you’re something that needs to be killed and won’t stop reloading long enough to listen?”

“That is something we’ll have to consider if and when we get there,” she said, her voice changing, taking on a deadly grave cast. “I’m not alone here, and we do everything in our power to stay out of human affairs, but that doesn’t mean we don’t protect each other. Any humans who would come after me wouldn’t be facing just me, that’s all I can say.”

“For your sake and theirs, I hope you’re able to stay under the radar.”

“I’ve been doing it every minute of every day since Little Richard first sang Tutti Frutti.”


	3. Chapter 3

It was rare to wake up feeling warm and safe; he didn’t put much stock in safety—safety was a knife or gun under your pillow and salt lines at the door and windows. But sometimes it was nice to enjoy being comfortable when there was no pressing, immediate need to get up.

Sam was in the other bed, still snoring, and he realized that either Jayme had gotten _really_ small or she . . . was gone. “The hell?”

“Hmm?” Sam opened one eye against the tangle of hair hanging in his face that made him look fourteen.

“Jayme’s gone,” Dean said, throwing the covers aside and sitting up despite his shoulder trying to make him regret the move.

“Relax, she’s probably just downstairs and if she were getting into it with Bobby we’d have heard something.”

Dean hesitated, his throbbing shoulder and muzzy head warring with his desire to make sure Jayme was okay. He glanced to the side where her things were still piled on the floor, so she obviously hadn’t _left_ left.

Still, he needed to know for sure. Moving slowly, he pulled on his shirt without difficulty, managing to wrangle his only partially-cooperative arm into the sleeve without needing Sam’s help.

His jeans, however, were a different story. He could get his right leg in just fine, but when he reached down with his left hand to try to pull them up, his shoulder let loose with a few blasts that made his teeth grind.

“Here,” Sam said, kneeling. He pulled the jeans leg up, waiting until Dean stood, then pulling them up all the way over his hips.

“Sam, I don’t need to be dressed like a damn kid.”

“You’re hurting and it’s no big deal. And by the way—you’re welcome.”

They headed downstairs, Dean already calling for Bobby when he heard his voice from the study.

“Would you two idjits keep it quiet?”

They crept in, neither having any idea what to expect. For all Dean knew, Bobby was sprawled naked on a neromancer-skin rug—an image he quickly banished, both shuddering and wondering where the hell his brain had gotten _that_ from.

Instead Bobby was sitting at his desk, which was as usual crowded with books, a bottle of booze at his elbow. His glass was empty, with no way to tell how long it had been that way. “She’s out,” he said, gesturing to the couch.

Jayme was there, curled up on her stomach under the same throw he’d brought out the night before; for a moment Dean thought she was sucking her thumb, but it was just the way her hand was resting next to her face. “How’d she get down here?”

“Nightmare. Found her out on the porch covered in sweat and shakin’ like a leaf,” Bobby said. “Never figured something—someone—that’s got her own private Wookiee would be scared of a dream.”

“She tell you what it was about?” Dean asked, sitting on the arm of the couch.

“That demon rattled her. Bad. She talked like it got in her head.”

“It did,” Sam said, biting his lip as he stared at her. “It got in all our heads.”

“Yeah, but how did it know about her? You think it read John’s mind?”

Sam just shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“If she can get rattled that bad, you really think having her around is a good idea? This isn’t the kind of job where you can just have a breakdown right in the middle of things.”

“She doesn’t do that,” Dean said. “When the shit’s on, she’s as cool as any of us.”

“Bobby, you should be careful what you say,” Sam said. “She has a tendency to hear things in her sleep.”

“Doubt she’s hearing anything right now. Hasn’t moved since she got back.”

“Back? From where?”

“Had her a little walkabout last night. Ran off on four legs—oh, and thanks for telling me that in advance, by the way—went out back and did who knows what, came back in a little before dawn, made it to the couch, and she’s been there ever since.”

“Were you up all night, Bobby?”

Bobby looked at Dean. “What are you, my mother? I waited until she fell asleep, then went to bed. Came down a little while ago and she hasn’t moved.”

Dean reached out, moving her hair back away from her face. “Jaymes? Hey, Jaymes?”

“Dean, leave her be,” Sam said. “She’s had a rough time.”

“I just wanna make sure she’s okay!”

Bobby stood up. “Kitchen. C’mon. If she wants to listen in, fine. No sense on makin’ it harder for her to sleep.”

For a moment Dean got a stubborn look on his face and Bobby almost expected him to refuse. Then he stood, leaning over to tuck the blanket in a little more before following Sam to the kitchen. Bobby brought up the rear, feeling his own sense of confusion; much more had happened in the last few months than any of them were telling.

“So, you two figured out what you’re gonna do now?”

Dean’s eyes darted to the left, away from Sam and Bobby both. “Not a damn bit.”

“I’m gonna shower,” Sam said. “You two okay?”

“You know, I _do_ manage to get along just fine without you,” Bobby said, his face not matching his harsh words. “Just get outta here.”

“Got anything to eat, Bobby?” Dean asked, heading for the fridge.

“Not a lot. Wasn’t expecting company. You and Sam might wanna make a store run. Guessin’ she ain’t a vegetarian.”

“Nope.”

“I’m sorry about your dad, Dean. You know we had our disagreements but—”

“Bobby, it’s okay. I know. Dad would never have brought us here if he didn’t trust you.”

“That isn’t what I meant.”

“Yeah, I know,” Dean said, his gaze darting around even more as if he were looking for an escape from the conversation. “I’m sure he knew.”

“How you doin’, son?”

Dean rolled his eyes. “I’m _fine_ , okay? Last thing I wanna do right now is talk about feelings like I’m on a friggin’ episode of Oprah or something.”

“I meant your shoulder, smartass.”

“Oh. It’s fine. I can move it some now.”

“How bad was it?”

“Bad. Real bad.” With the way Dean downplayed anything having to do with injuries or illnesses to himself, the admission meant it had been mortal or near-mortal.

“Then it’s damn lucky she was there, huh?”

Dean just shrugged. “Soon as Sam’s back we’ll go out for supplies. Keep an eye on Jayme?”

Bobby figured pushing right then would be a bad idea. “Sure.”

 

 

After they left, the Impala peeling from the drive with a spray of dirt, Bobby headed back into the house. Jayme was standing in the kitchen, dressed as if she were about to go jogging. “I was wondering if you’d do me a favor.”

“Depends.”

“Is there somewhere out back I can set up an exercise area? Nothing fancy, just a small level patch of ground should do.”

“‘Bout how big?”

“Big as you can spare to start.”

“C’mon,” he said, taking her outside and around the back, well away from the road. “Planning on doing stuff in those other forms?”

“Maybe. I’m not sure yet what I’ll be doing but I think seclusion would be best.”

“Listen. You’re gonna be on my property, then I want to know exactly what you’ll be doing out here.”

“Remembering.”

“Remembering what?”

“Things that I fooled myself into thinking I could forget.”

“You mind being a little less cryptic?”

She studied the ground for a moment, then slid into a relaxed fighting stance. He watched as she moved—it was clearly a kata of some kind, but not anything he’d seen before, on TV or off. The movements were precise and smooth, bereft of most of the kicks and punches he was used to seeing. She moved as if her entire body was the weapon, her claws coming out only at the last second, the easy snake-like snap of her body giving them even more power.

When she finished she looked anything but pleased, even though it was perfect as far as he could tell.

“If all you’re wantin’ to do is brush up on your fighting skills I don’t see what all the secrecy’s about.”

“No. It’s not that.”

“Then what?” He waited, but her answer never came.

 

 

By some miracle Dean and Sam had gone to town, picked up enough food, meat, beer, and pie for an army, and got back to Singer Salvage without Sam once asking Dean how he was feeling. Dean’s relief had faded a little when he realized how brooding and withdrawn Sam was; sure, there was reason to be, but he’d never seen Sam this disconnected before. Even after Jess had been killed—he’d cried, he’d gotten angry, his anger had turned into determination that had merged with the twenty-three year vendetta their family was already on, but Dean had also been able to have a conversation with him a couple days after.

Now, every time he tried to get more than two words from his brother, he met a stone wall. Fine. Sam needed time, that was okay by Dean. He’d come around eventually.

Bobby came out to help them carry the bags in. “Jayme still asleep?” Dean asked.

“Nope. She’s out back.”

“Doing what?”

“Either sparring with one of my engine blocks or working on her gold medal balance beam routine.”

Sam looked over, his forehead crinkling in puzzlement. “What?”

“Right after you left she asked if there was someplace she could use to work out. And she doesn’t mean jazzercize.”

“I’ll go see what she’s up to,” Sam said, heading out without another word.

“What’s with him? Beyond the obvious,” Bobby said, watching Dean unpack the bags.

“Promise you won’t say anything to anybody,” Dean said. 

“Yeah, sure.”

“The demon told him . . . that it had plans for him. ‘Him and all the other children like him,’ it said. None of us have any idea what that means, and I think that’s why he hasn’t gone running right back to College Land.”


	4. Chapter 4

_It was hard to hold still. Not under normal circumstances; she was a neromancer, after all, and the ability to remain perfectly still and focused had been ingrained in her species for millions of years. But when being circled by her_ rasmenehra, _a middle-aged isisean with a piercing gaze, all alone in a fighting ring, things were hardly normal._

_“You are tense,” he said._

_There was no use in denial. “I am.”_

_“Why? And don’t say you don’t know, because I know that would be a lie.”_

_“I can’t say.”_

_“Why not?”_

_Jayme closed her eyes, feeling the walls closing around her once more. She felt more than heard the attack and did the only thing she knew how; dropping down, she scrambled backward, covering her face and trying to make herself as subordinate as possible. It was weakness, everything Adha hated, but she couldn’t help it._

_“You’re cowering at the edge of the ring. Why?”_

_“I don’t know!”_

_“You do know. Why?”_

_“Because I’m afraid!”_

_“Of what?” Closer now, his words closing in._

_“Of . . . of being hurt!”_

_The blow was hard and came without warning, spinning her around. She pushed back further but found no escape, bites and claws hitting her from all sides, driving her into panic, into that yawing void she feared more than anything—_

_She turned, catching him as he pounced, and rolled, her larger form easily overpowering his smaller one. He brought up a paw, turning aside her crazed bite. It was enough to make her realize what she’d done, enough to stop her attack._

_“You don’t fear being hurt. You are afraid to fight back.”_

_“I’m not allowed to fight back. I can’t.”_

_“That is the sound a frightened child makes. You are not a child.” He drew closer, his voice softening. “How long have you been afraid?”_

_“My entire life. My f—”_

_He cut her off. “No. It is not my place to know. You are scared and you are angry. You cannot run forever, and sooner or later that anger will come out. My task is to teach you to control that anger, channel it so that it does not rule you, and to help you move past fear. I can help you, but you must want it, and believe that it will happen.”_

 

It hadn’t been easy. Thankfully that year her class had been small, leaving him plenty of time to work with her, but even the most basic reflexes were a struggle. Fighting the instinct to cower when attacked took all her effort, leaving her with nights of exhaustion before long days of study.

It wasn’t until her second year that the lessons started to take hold, giving her a measure of balance she’d never had. The nightmares eased and she even made a few friends as the life she’d run from began to be less and less of a specter. She was free; she did have a choice now, and control over her destiny, including the decision never to return home.

Had John Winchester even come close with his sons? She doubted it, if for no other reason than the devotion both Sam and Dean showed in different ways, and their grief when he was gone. She hadn’t mourned Adha; his death had brought only relief and a vague sense of regret, not even enough to be called ambivalence. Would she have waded into an area full of demons, risking life and limb to save him? Even when feeling unusually generous the answer still would have been a firm no.

But John had been hard on his sons in ways she had no trouble understanding.

“Military service is compulsory on Katarin,” she explained to Sam, who apparently thought he’d managed to come up behind her undetected. “But it’s kind of a misnomer when you translate it. Our word is _taranastha_ , which has no English equivalent. Military academy, big A small M, is the closest term, since the focus is on training that leans in that direction.”

“But it’s not the same thing.”

“No. More like a liberal-arts university with combat lessons. The purpose is to take young neromancers and find out what talents each of us have, shape us into well-rounded individuals, and help us into careers that benefit ourselves and society. Very utopian, I know.”

“What if someone doesn’t want to go into the career they pick?”

“They can leave. Minimum service is two years. After that, the choice is yours.”

“So what’s to keep everyone from just leaving?”

“Sam, you got a full ride to Stanford. Imagine if everyone did.”

“Not everyone is cut out for college.”

“True, but what if everyone had the opportunity to go? And if instead of making money, schools focused all their efforts on finding the best minds? Dean would have been shunted directly into the engineering field.”

Sam scoffed, but only a little. “Dean, an engineer.”

“Well, that or a marksman instructor. He’s a natural teacher.”

Sam looked around the salvage yard. “You know, everything you’ve told us about Katarin makes it sound like this wonderful place, so why were you so eager to leave and come to a craphole world like this?”

“Easy. It’s not a craphole to me. I guess that’s my privilege talking. But Sam—you and your brother grew up only seeing one side of it.”

Sam snorted. “Tell me about it.”

“It couldn’t have been all bad. Even my childhood wasn’t constant misery.”

Sam tipped his head, thinking it over. No, it hadn’t been _all_ bad. “No, but . . . the bad outweighs the good.”

“Now I understand why Ahma was so sad. She wanted to give you some good, at least try to.”

“Yeah, and Dad wouldn’t let her. He had to be control all the time.” Sam lowered his head, his chin nearly touching his chest. “I shouldn’t be talking like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because he’s dead! I shouldn’t be ripping on him when he’s not even here!”

Ignoring the urge to give him space, Jayme crossed the narrow patch of dirt between them and put her arms around him. “Sam, I’m sorry your father’s dead. You know I am. But that doesn’t mean you have to put the hurt and anger aside as if it never happened. That’s a forgiveness that takes time. I can’t think of a single person I’ve ever loved that I’m not able to bash left and right.”

Sam leaned back. “Not even John and Keith?”

“Not even them. Son, I could rant about those two until you’d be almost sure I hated them. But they were good men and I will miss them both forever. Love isn’t just positive things; it’s caring about someone even if you want to knock their block off sometimes. You’re going to miss your dad so much your heart aches, and then there’s going to be times when you hate him. And then you’ll miss him. And then you’ll hate him again. That’s how it works.”

“I never saw you like that after your mom died.”

“There wasn’t much about Ahma herself to hate, but trust me—I’ve had a few nights where all the dark stuff came up.”

“So why did you come out here? Bobby was saying something about engine blocks and balance beams?”

She laughed. “I came out to dust off my _yarhya dhe k’thantla_. Fighting arts. It’s where it all started for me, and if I’m going to help you I had to take myself back a long time.”

“Help me?”

She reached up, pushing his ever-lengthening bangs off his forehead. “Sam, about sixty years ago I was where you are now. Scared, no idea what to do, where to go, and I didn’t have an elder sibling to rely on. I was on my own in a completely terrifying new world. There was a person who helped me then, and I want to see if I can help you. You and Dean have given me a lot these last couple months and I want to return the favor.”

“You don’t look so sure about it. Is there something you need to tell me?”

“It’s nothing. It’s not important.”

“Jayme.”

“I just . . . I didn’t realize how far I’d gone. Native, Sam,” she added, seeing the confusion on his face. “It’s not just spending time on Earth. It was . . . trying to abandon the neromancer side. There were days that I actually forgot that I’m not human. And I’ve spent so much time and energy doing it that now I’m having to go back, and as much as I know I have to—”

“You’re scared of what might happen,” he said. “I think I understand.”

She nodded. “Probably do. I know you had college and time away from your dad and Dean, time enough for this life to seem like a dream, and then all of a sudden you’re back in it.”

“Yeah. But I didn’t go as far as you, Jayme. You’ve been running from who you are decades before I was even born. I’m just sorry you had to stop.”

“Sooner or later, Sam, you have to stop running. My _rasmenehra_ taught me that.”

“ _Rasmenehra_?”

“Teacher of the fighting arts. Sensei, sifu, instructor, pick your term. That’s what I’ve been doing out here. Remembering.”

“Listen, Jayme, you don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”

She shook her head. “No, I do. This isn’t about me any more. Things end, and I have to live with that, but it doesn’t mean something else can’t begin. I told you before that if you want my help, I’ll do what I can. I’m ready. And no inspirational hard rock or crane kicks in this bildungsroman, I promise.”

Sam nodded, pushing up his sleeves. “Okay. Where do I start?”

“You stand.”


	5. Chapter 5

“You stood.” Dean glanced from his brother to the kitchen, which was currently blaring something classical—Sam had guessed Mozart and Bobby Bach—as Jayme danced back and forth. She’d repeatedly chased all three men from the room any time they’d tried to poke their noses—or anything else—in. She was cooking something, the smell alone enough to tell them that from a distance, but it was hard to tell what.

“At first, yeah. She said that’s how she started.”

“Started what?”

“I’m . . . not really sure.”

Dean looked at his brother, his attention drawn away from the tantalizing smell that only came from good slow-roasted meat. Sam looked uncomfortable, which wasn’t unusual in the slightest, but it was less discomfort and more unsurety now. He looked like a freshman on his first day of high school—utterly lost and bewildered. It was a look Dean prided himself on avoiding.

“So you were just standing there and you didn’t even know why?”

“No, but . . . it was okay. Gave me a chance to just not think for a while. Guess I needed it.”

“You said ‘at first.’ What came second?”

Sam grinned, sheepish. “We leaned.”

Dean just blinked. He was used to insanity but this was a different flavor entirely. “You leaned.”

“Yeah. She said it was to feel how gravity works.”

“You know, Sammy, I always thought that was something you already knew.”

“I wasn’t teaching him about gravity, genius,” Jayme said, popping her head in. Her hair was pulled back from her face and up off her neck in a messy twist that Dean found quite fetching. “It’s about self-awareness in relation to bodily position. You have to start there—before you can walk you have to learn to stand up.” She withdrew just as suddenly.

Dean looked back at Sam. “What in the _hell_ does that mean?”

“Probably that it’s the basis for how she fights and jumps around like that,” Bobby said. He’d reacted to being chased from his own kitchen with an unusually small amount of grumbling. “Although her species might have a tremendous advantage over us to start with. After all—you ever see a cat trip and fall?”

“Yeah, but she’s not a cat,” Dean said.

“No, but she moves like one.”

“So what, she’s training you now, Sam? Am I gonna wake up tomorrow and see you standing on a tree stump like this?” Dean lifted one leg, raising his right arm in the crane position after his left refused to go above chest level. “Or maybe waxing a bunch of cars?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “It’s not like that, Dean.”

Jayme pushed the sliding doors to the kitchen open. “Don’t be ridiculous. Waxing cars is Lesson Four. Well, c’mon and get it while it’s hot.”

Bobby was less enthusiastic, especially since neither Sam or Dean particularly shared his tastes, and this was a meal prepared by a friggin’ _alien_ so God only knew what she’d put in it, but their complete lack of nervousness took some of the hestitation away, and he was curious what she’d been doing.

The table had been pushed into the middle of the kitchen, the center dominated by Karen’s big metal roaster, currently containing a large roast, the meat already separated into pieces and seasoned with a combination of spices he couldn’t readily identify. Potatoes and carrots ringed the pan, the entire thing still simmering in juices from the meat.

Dean just stared. “Holy crap I love you,” he said, blindly reaching for a plate.

Bobby looked at Jayme in time to see the flush rise into her cheeks. He decided not to ask, but suddenly a whole lot of things were more clear.

“Sam?” she said. “You can stop looking all woebegone.”

“What?” he said, snapping out of it. He’d been staring at the repast with the expression of someone fighting disappointment. “No, no, this looks great.”

“Bull. Sit.”

He sighed, sitting down and reaching for a plate when her palm came down on the back of his hand with a gentle smack. He looked up, watching the large bowl she set down in front of him. “What the—how did you—?”

“Know that meat and potatoes aren’t really your thing? Not exactly a state secret. So—crisp lettuce, cucumber, carrots, radishes, a very light Italian dressing, and grilled chicken. Although by the time we reach lesson five you’ll want to increase the protein.”

“What’s lesson five?” Dean asked, sitting down next to Sam, any uncharitable thoughts he had towards her vanishing.

“I don’t have any idea.”

Mealtime in the Singer household was usually neither cheerful nor formal. Formality had never been Bobby’s forte and any cheer that had existed faded after Karen died. Mostly it was cans of this or that warmed up on the stove, takeout, sometimes something a little more involved if the boys were there. Cheer wasn’t the word he would have chosen to describe those times, but “less grim” would do.

Jayme didn’t allow them to eat in silence, joking around and provoking Dean by constantly stealing from his plate; she seemed to be as comfortable with him and Sam as if she’d been with them all their lives.

“I did not have a beehive hairdo in the sixties, now stop it,” she said. “I don’t have the volume for that shit.”

“Yeah, she’s more the ‘flower in your hair’ hippy type,” Sam said, leaning back from her swipe.

“Careful, Sam—she’ll sic the Who on you.”

“The Who?” Bobby said. “As in the Who Who?”

“The ones and only,” she said. “Not so many ones these days.”

“They know who you are?”

“Yes. I told them back in the seventies.”

“How’d they take it?”

She twirled her fork. “They panicked and screamed and Keith jumped out a window. No, they took it fine. Every human I’ve told has.”

“And what about the ones who found out?”

Her eyes slid over to meet his gaze. “No one ever has.”

Dean started. “What?”

“No human has ever found me out. Well, except for Bobby here, he’s the first. The only ones who know, know because I chose to tell them. Actually, I take that back; I chose to let Bobby see my med tech and knew he’d figure it out sooner or later, so I sort of half-revealed myself. So technically I still have a perfect score.”

Sam shook his head. “You really did go the full Lawrence of Arabia, didn’t you?”

“No, I went further than he did. T. E. Lawrence understood Arab culture in ways his fellow Englishmen couldn’t reach, but he didn’t completely cast off his entire identity as a British officer and white man and try to be fully Arab. If he had, then the analogy would be more apt.” She flicked a piece of meat at Dean. “Quit staring at me like that. I watch movies and Delphinar was my mother. I’ve got a lot of random historical knowledge rattling around in here.”

“So you’ve been just drifting around since the fifties without ever tipping anyone off?” Bobby said.

She nodded. “Seeing your world? I can understand your doubt. But I was just going around soaking in culture and enjoying music and pop culture and interacting with folks. That doesn’t tend to make you stand out; trust me, in the midst of a zeitgeist it’s easy to hide, and it’s not like I’m a vampire or werewolf trying to kill people. There’s nothing I wanted from anyone I met other than companionship, so of course I stayed under the radar. I was harmless.”

“Except,” Dean said, catching her look.

“Well, you hang out with rock stars and famous people and sooner or later there’s unpleasantness. I’ve had to use a little muscle a time or two to protect my friends, but most fights I stayed out of.”

“You should see her, Bobby. She pulled this move on Dean once, leaped up and clamped her legs around his shoulders,” Sam said. “He dropped like a rock.”

“It was a lucky shot,” Dean said.

“There was just one time, before I landed here, that I used my other form as a weapon. I wasn’t proud of it but it was necessary. Not going into it, but let’s just say it was brief, no one was killed or maimed, and I didn’t make the paper. I got a reprimand in my file even though my boss privately told me I did the right thing.”

“Your boss?” Bobby said.

Sam tried not to smirk. “Yeah, Bobby. This is her job. What monster do you know that has to file reports and can get in trouble for hurting a human?”

“What was it?” Dean asked. “Come on, you can tell us.”

Jayme looked down at her empty plate, shoving around a few scraps of meat. “One night Keith and I were out on the town with his bodyguard Neil. We were leaving and a bunch of drunken yobbos started giving us a hard time. Keith started panicking and got in the car and started it up, and Neil was right in front of it. Keith stepped on the gas and was going right for him—I think he was so drunk and scared he didn’t even see him. So I changed and shoved Neil out of the way and stopped the car with my hip. Then I . . . well, you know how loud my roar is. I think a couple guys broke their asses trying to get out of there.”

“So what happened?” Sam asked.

“Not much. Everyone who saw me was drunk off their asses so the police didn’t buy it, Neil didn’t see me, and Keith already knew. Saving him was more important than being found out.”

“Hope you stopped that fool from pulling any crap like that after,” Bobby said.

“Well, not totally, but he was a lot more careful and we—you know, people around him—made sure he didn’t get behind the wheel anymore.” She smiled a little. “I, uh, told him if he ever did something like that again I’d change forms and kick his ass.”

“You still couldn’t save him though, could you?” Dean asked.

“No. Sometimes . . . there are people you can’t help.”


	6. Chapter 6

The next morning Sam woke early, finding Jayme already up, sitting cross-legged on the now-single bed. The night before, after a lengthy argument with Dean, he and Jayme had pushed the two twins together to make one, while Sam had found a mattress in one of the other bedrooms and made a nest on the floor. Dean had grumbled long after giving in, but seemed to grudgingly enjoy having more room.

Dean was still out, unmoving as Jayme pulled back the covers and scanned his shoulder. Sam watched her eyes move from the screen to his face and back again, sometimes lingering so long that the scanner had to beep to get her attention.

“So? How is he?” Sam asked, sitting up.

“Swelling’s almost gone. Everything’s healing up perfectly—he should be moving without pain in a day or so. I don’t even think he’ll need much physical therapy.”

“Like he’d cooperate if you tried.”

She smiled. “I don’t know. I can be very persuasive.”

“No kidding. So—are we going to continue today, or?”

“If you’re up for it.” She turned the scanner off and tucked it away.

“What about Dean?”

“Let him rest. When and if he’s ready, he’s free to join us.”

After a quick breakfast that was more meat than Sam was used to eating, they headed outside, stretching and running a few times around Singer Salvage until they were warmed up, then heading back to the space Jayme had cleared.

For Jayme it was like stepping back in time to a place that still left her uncomfortable. It certainly wasn’t a time that she actively blocked, but there had never been ease there, no matter how much those days in _taranastha_ had brought her to the first balance she’d ever known. But seeing how much Sam was hurting and how lost he clearly felt pushed that aside, and for the first time in years—perhaps even decades—she let Katarin back into her life.

Sam was a good student. Being trained by his father and hunting monsters for much of his life had given him an edge that most of humanity lacked. He could focus with that single-mindedness necessary for his line of work, and training just on basic balance that would have taken other humans weeks was taking him just over a day. She picked up from the day before, showing him how to lean and feel the pull of gravity and, more importantly, where it rested in his body. After a couple hours they moved on, Jayme feeling a relaxed sense of purpose, the horrors of what they’d just come through slowly starting to fade.

 

 

Dean had heard them talking that morning but feigned sleep, and if Jayme noticed she hadn’t said anything. He still wasn’t wild about the idea of Sam learning a bunch of weird alien fighting tricks for reasons he couldn’t explain; it wasn’t like Jayme was some stranger or that she’d ever hurt Sam, but it was taking over the job he’d always felt was his and his alone.

Dad. He tried to block the thought out but it kept scratching at him, demanding attention. All the rationalization he’d tried—that Dad had gone down fighting, that he’d done it to protect them, that he’d finally killed that demon son of a bitch that had killed Mom—was useless to banish the thought that Dad was gone. Forever.

What the hell was he supposed to do now? Sam was freaked out by that whole ‘children like him’ crap, Jayme was having nightmares about it, and all Dean wanted to do was get back on the road and start killing things again so he didn’t have to think about anything.

He got up, working his shoulder a little until it was loose enough for him to dress himself—finally—and go downstairs. The house was empty; Bobby was nowhere to be found, and judging from the plates by the sink Jayme and Sam hadn’t been there for hours. After a quick breakfast and a cup of strong coffee he went outside, going around both sides of the house before heading back to the salvage yard.

Where Sam and Jayme were playing patty-cake.

He just stared for a minute, moving quickly behind the corner of the big workshop so they wouldn’t see him. He’d always known his brother was weird, but this was over the top. He watched for a few minutes, long enough to see that it wasn’t what he’d initially thought. They were standing face to face, each turned slightly in a ready stance, their palms touching, arms moving slowly back and forth as they pushed against each other. Sam’s eyes were closed, and Jayme was speaking to him, her voice too low for Dean to make out.

Now it looked more like some kind of meditation. Dean just shook his head and turned back towards the house; leave it to them to get all New Age on him, after convincing him that she was going to teach him how to fight—or at least how to fight better.

 

 

Sam lowered his hands. “I don’t get it,” he said. “What does this have to do with anything? I already know how to stand and lean, Jayme!”

Jayme just tilted her head to the side and moved her left hand behind her back, raising her right. Sam sighed and met it with his left. Jayme leaned back ever so slightly as Sam pushed, then stepped out of the way, turning her hand so that it rolled off of Sam’s. He staggered forward by his own momentum, off-balance just enough for her to reach down and grab his ankle, knocking him flat. He slammed face-first into the dirt they’d carefully spread there after making sure the gravel and stones were swept clear. 

She crouched down next to him. “Until you can manage not to eat dirt . . . no, Sam. You don’t already know.”

He pushed himself up on his elbows. “How do you do that? I mean, you hardly even moved!”

“It’s what our fighting style is based on. On Katarin our primary prey is the _hibharya_. They’re about as big as a rhino with four curving horns and powerful enough to kill us if we’re in the wrong place. We hunt in groups, like lionesses, so we not only have to coordinate ourselves, but make sure it doesn’t turn on us. Over millions of years we’ve developed a fighting style that’s as much about deflection and the redirection of kinetic energy as it is about attack. That’s half the secret. That’s how you stay alive fighting something that can easily kick your ass.”

Sam pushed himself up on his knees. “So that’s why knowing how gravity works is so important.”

“Exactly. The only way you can fight something is if you’re balanced. If things aren’t over, if whatever plan that demon had is still in play, then you need to be ready.”

“How?” he said. “How do I prepare for something I have no idea about? That I don’t even know is going to happen!”

“By keeping your mind and body sharp,” she said. “By learning how to protect yourself even more against things that are bigger and stronger. We have the time. We can either use it or waste it. Your choice.”

“Do you think we have enough time? Before . . . something else happens?”

“Training doesn’t just happen here,” she said, helping him to his feet. “Wherever we are we can continue. If I’m going to teach you to fight me in my beast form, we’ll need whatever time we can scrounge.”

Sam laughed until he realized Jayme wasn’t joining him. “What, you’re serious?”

“Sure. I can teach you how to defend yourself against something bigger or faster or stronger than you as safely as possible. Of course, the safest thing is to keep away entirely, but in your line of work that’s not always an option.”

“It’s hardly ever an option,” he said. “Can you really? I mean, you won’t get in trouble?”

“I’m walking a line, Sam. We’re not supposed to interfere with your lives more than we have to, but you guys are a special case. I think it would be a worse crime not to help you out with whatever I can beg, borrow, or steal. I’ve already done more than usual already.”

“Wait, so how much are you allowed to do?”

“I don’t know, Sam. I really don’t. But you don’t worry about that. Right now you need to worry about your balance and how to keep it. Now let’s start again.”

 

 

“They were what?”

Bobby had returned to the house to find Dean stewing in the kitchen, silent until he entered and then opening up with a spew that in a way reminded him too strongly of John. Dean held up his hands, moving them about to illustrate to Bobby what he’d seen Sam and Jayme doing. He waltzed around the kitchen a little. “She’s reaching into his pure spirit or some crap like that!”

“And he’s puttin’ up with it?”

“Oh, he was loving every minute of it, I could tell. His eyes were even closed.”

“Well, that must mean he’s signed over his soul, then!” Bobby said, giving Dean a stink-eye. “What are you so fussed about? Sam’s an adult and she’s . . . well, she’s old enough. Are you jealous or something?”

“What, no!” Dean said entirely too quickly. 

“Then what’s your problem? Mad because they’re playing together and they didn’t include you?”

“Bobby, they can do whatever they want,” Dean said just as Jayme and Sam came in. They were both dirty and sweaty, Sam with a scrape on his chin. 

“Looks like they were doin’ more than patty-cake,” Bobby said.

“I’m gonna shower,” Sam said, looking at Jayme.

“Go ahead,” she said. “You should stretch after you shower, just to make sure you stay limber.”

“Limber for what?” Dean asked.

“I thought you weren’t interested,” she said.

“I’m not, I’m just asking.”

“Asking what?” She went over to the sink, splashing water on her face and arms. “Either open your damn mouth and ask a question or shut it.”

“What the hell’s your problem?”

She turned off the water. “You. Always tearing things down—Sam, me, everybody. You could do incredible things if you’d just get over yourself.” She pulled her wet hair back into its neat ponytail. “I’m gonna take a quick run. Don’t wait up for me.”

 

 

Days passed.

Dean found it increasingly hard to find things to keep him occupied. He tuned Baby up to within an inch of her chrome-plated life, then moved on to Bobby’s car—there wasn’t much hope for it but he could at least get the engine sounding like something other than a lifelong chain-smoker with emphysema. 

He stayed away from Sam and Jayme; they’d made an uneasy sort of peace when she returned, him offering her a bottle of water when she ran up to the porch. She’d taken it without comment, saying nothing as she went inside. That evening they’d played cards and things were normal, with Sam and Jayme gone again by the time he’d gotten up the next day. Sam refused to talk about what they were doing, telling Dean that if he wanted to know he should ask Jayme.

Every afternoon Sam came in wet and filthy, sometimes with scrapes and bruises, but he didn’t look discouraged or even that tired. There was a different look in his eyes, one that Dean wasn’t familiar with. It wasn’t that he’d never seen his brother determined or focused—he had, more often than he could count—but this held a different flavor.

In the middle of the second week it was Jayme who started turning up with bruises and scrapes.

 

 

“Now do you see why I had you stand and lean for so long?”

Sam nodded, moving back to first position. He was smart enough—and had seen enough movies—to know that skills had to be built from the bottom up. The sun had finally come out after a couple days of clouds and one rainy day that had driven them into Bobby’s big barn of a workshop, where they’d cleared out a corner enough to continue the _yharhya d’he khthantla_.

He’d quickly learned that neromancers definitely emphasized the ‘art’ over the ‘fighting.’ The focus was entirely on the movements, the form, feeling where you were in relation to gravity’s pull, awareness of forces around you, how to respond to the first touch and turn your opponent’s attack against them before they were even aware of it. It was more than just using an opponent’s momentum or strength against them, but turning their own momentum into an offensive weapon, avoiding direct attacks and forcing them to move much faster than the attacker intended, grabbing a punching fist and wrenching it forward, or moving backward from a punch, robbing it of its power. Despite his initial doubt, Jayme had assured him that these were things he could learn.

It hadn’t been easy; he’d lost count of the bruises and cuts from falling and being thrown, but Jayme was a very different teacher from his father. There was some of the same firmness, but she was much more like Dean; encouraging him and praising his successes, and correcting his errors rather than snapping at him. After a week, he felt the progress come and along with it, an inkling of what Jayme had been talking about.

Now, as he dug his sneaker into the small rut he’d formed by long practice, he cleared his head and found himself feeling more grounded than he had in months. His arms moved down, relaxed but at the same time ready. “ _Hatha_ ,” he said, indicating to Jayme that he was ready.

He kept his eyes closed as she came, calling out the moves as she struck; a backhand he blocked with his forearms and allowed to roll off, keeping his legs firmly under him as the backhand became a hard punch; he twisted, letting it hit his side as a glancing blow instead of a direct one, keeping his awareness focused on his body as one long single thread and where gravity was, just managing to catch the kick to his knee and turn, his body curling down and turning so that he was facing the same direction as the attack, and then driving his elbow upward, bone meeting softness, her slight “whoof!” to let him know he’d made a good hit.

He opened his eyes. “Well?”

Jayme rubbed her side. “I’m gonna need armor soon.”

“I’m sorry, did I—”

“Sam, remember what I said first day?”

“Bruises happen, don’t be sorry for landing a good hit.”

“Right. So—are you feeling it now?”

He nodded, straightening. “I get it. I mean, it’s still a little fast, but I think I understand what you’re trying to teach me.”

“Which is what?”

He glared at her. “Do we really have to play this?”

“I’m not playing anything, Sam. You have to tell me what you’re feeling and noticing so I can determine if you’re on the right track. Pretend I’m one of your college professors if that helps.”

He sighed. “Right, okay. I understand what you meant about feeling the other person’s force, not being afraid to touch it and really use it. Like when you punch out, having that moment of feeling . . . “ He trailed off, trying to find the words.

“We call it _nathar syi deth_ ,” she said, taking his hand and pressing her palm to his fist. “That first touch, just when energy starts to build up, right?”

He nodded. “Yeah, when your instinct is to tense up.”

“And you’re learning to change it to a different instinct—the instinct to move with it and away from it, rob it of its power.”

“But how can you move that fast? I mean, sometimes punches or hits come when you’re not expecting them.”

The side of Jayme’s mouth quirked in a smile. “I didn’t say it was perfect, Sam. Surprise hits and ambushes are part of the game. But this, combined with a more focused awareness of where you are and everything else gives you even more protection.”

“So it’s a matter of learning how to make this a natural way of being.”

“It’s already part of your way of being, Sam. Your father’s training took care of that already.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“You just did.” She smirked at the bitchface he shot her. “Yeah, ask away.”

“How’d your dad die?”

Jayme blinked. “Badly. And I was not sorry to see him go.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” she said. “It was Rhesaria’s Syndrome. A breakdown of the nerves surrounding our spinal node, where our shifting ability is. The nerves start misfiring, so only some cells mutate while others don’t. It starts with random nerve pain and gets worse and worse, fatal when the body starts to literally tear itself apart. He couldn’t change forms after a while, and he refused to let them paralyze him, which is the only way to stay alive. I wasn’t there when he died, but apparently he got even more bitter and nasty at the end. He did not die a good death.”

“Wow,” Sam said. “That’s awful.” 

“He deserved it. I’m not sorry he got back every bit of pain he caused me.”

“Was it really all bad?”

She sighed, the puff of air sending a few strands of hair flying. “No, not at first. When Ahma was still there after I was born, things were fine. She was there until I was . . . well, the equivalent of maybe seven years old. It was after she came back here that he changed.”

“Sounds like Dad,” he said.

“Maybe. I didn’t know your dad that well, and you two never met mine. But from what I saw, even at his worst your dad wasn’t like mine. He might have been an asshole sometimes but at least deep down at the bottom it was about protecting you two and making you strong. With mine . . . I think I was just a chew toy for him to gnaw on sometimes when he got mad. Metaphorically, of course.”

“So he never treated you nice?”

“I wouldn’t say never. The most I could hope for was to be left alone. Sometimes if he was in a good mood things were pleasant, but I always had to be on my guard.”

Sam bit his lip, looking down. He didn’t have flashbacks the way Jayme clearly did, but there were enough unpleasant memories of his own to make him able to relate only too well. “I’m sorry you had to live like that.”

She kicked at the dirt. “I am too. And it messed me up for a long time. I got real good at hiding it from everyone—especially Ahma. Just like you and Dean do, hiding from each other. But eventually it catches up to you and you have to either deal with it, or let it rule your life.”

“How?” he said.

“You’re already on the road, Sam. I figure if we walk it together, we might find what we’re both looking for.”

“What about Dean?”

“You just let me handle Dean.”


	7. Chapter 7

Dean had not been exactly idle while Sam and Jayme were playing Ms. Miyagi and Sam-san. He’d even snuck out and watched them a time or two; they’d gone from patty-cake and meditation to something that looked a little more like fighting, though it still looked more like choreographed interpretive dance to him.

Bobby had suggested that Dean join them since according to him Dean was “moping around the house like the kid that got picked last for kickball,” but no way was he going out there so Jayme could turn him into a second-rate Karate Kid.

What he really wanted was to get back to work.

It was just shy of two weeks since they’d limped to Bobby’s (Dean had found a note from Bobby on the kitchen table that morning, letting them know he was off on a job and not to expect him back for a while, and admonishing them to “try not to wreck anything, and if you leave before I get back you idjits lock up the house”) when Sam came in, the nearly-set sun throwing orange-red light through the door. He was moving strangely enough that Dean got up, going over to him. “You okay?”

Sam paused at the sink. “Huh? Oh, yeah, I’m fine.” He started to reach for a glass with his right arm, then dropped it and switched to his left.

“What’s wrong with your arm?” Dean said.

“Nothing.”

Dean waited until Sam was concentrating on filling a glass with water, then reached out, giving him a quick rabbit punch to the side—not hard, just enough to confirm what he suspected. Sam groaned, dropping his right arm a little more to cover his side.

“Sam.” It was a tone he’d used with Sam all his life, one that carried the full parental weight of a command for which refusal was not an option. 

“It’s nothing,” Sam said. “Just some stuff from training.”

Dean pushed Sam’s arm out of the way and lifted his t-shirt. “Doesn’t look like nothing to me, Sammy,” he said, his voice tight at the sight of the welts that lined Sam’s side from just under his armpit down to his waist. “What the hell did she do to you? No, wait, forget it,” he said, cutting Sam off. “I’m gonna find out for myself. This ends now.”

“Dean, wait!” Sam said, grabbing with his left arm. “I’m okay!”

“No, you are _not_ okay, Sam!” Dean said, his voice a snarl. “She’s gone too far!”

“Wait, stop!” Sam said, running after his brother as he tore out the door and around back.

It took Dean a few minutes to find her, giving his anger time to get to a high rolling boil. She’d hurt him—she’d _hurt Sam_ , someone she had supposedly sworn to protect. She was supposed to be teaching him, not playing some twisted version of Pai Mei!

The sun had gone down completely, and a stiff wind was starting to blow, bringing in the clouds that promised an ugly spatter of rain. He headed for the shop, drawn there by the light coming from inside. Jayme was over in their little corner, doing what looked like shadowboxing. There wasn’t a mark on her and the image of Sam’s side filled his head as he headed straight for her, not even letting her fully turn or get out a “Hey” before he swung.

It should have knocked her down or at least turned her head, but it never connected. Her hand came up as if to offer a fist-bump, her palm just touching his fist before it turned to the side, harmlessly deflecting the blow and sending Dean off-balance, enough that the bump she gave him with her hip sent him into the workbench.

“Dean, I told you it’s okay!” Sam said, moving to get between them.

Jayme held up a hand. “It’s okay, Sam. If Dean wants to talk with his fists, let him.”

Dean rounded back on her, a wrench in his hand. Normally he’d never have thought of using a weapon on her, but rage filled his head and that reservation was gone. She dodged his first and second swings; she was wearing a tank top, the muscles of her arms and shoulders clearly defined as she faced him, giving him a “come on, give me all you’ve got” look.

He hesitated, then moved, then stopped, waiting until Jayme blinked. He brought it in tight, a hard curving swing somewhere between baseball bat and golf club, putting all the power of his healed shoulder and arm into it. It hit her upper arm at the apex of the swing, the rusted corner cutting into her flesh.

Instead of falling or crying out, she turned with the blow, whirling around and grabbing first the wrench with her left hand, then his wrist with her right. Finding resistance gone, Dean couldn’t stop his fall forward, especially when Jayme threw all her weight forward and down, landing on his arm as he hit the floor.

“Want me to break it proper this time?” she said through clenched teeth, kicking the dislodged wrench away. She was on her side, pinning Dean to the floor with his left arm out and held securely in her grip for as long as it took for him to know that she was in control and could carry out the threat.

Sam watched, wanting to break it up, but there was clearly something between the two of them, just like there was something between him and Dean ever since Dad had died. He’d done plenty of grieving himself, Jayme giving him room when he needed it and giving support when he wanted it. But Dean had kept himself apart like usual and Sam had just figured giving him him space was what he needed.

Dean and Jayme twisted around, snarling at each other, Dean punching and kicking and Jayme avoiding and refracting, just like she’d been teaching him. Dean’s anger was raw and sharp, Jayme’s intense but controlled—Sam could see her moves for what they were; she was wearing him down, wearing him out, getting him exhausted to the point where there was a chance of talking some sense or at least making him less dangerous.

Finally Dean threw everything at her, flailing out madly, Jayme’s expression almost tender as she turned, still in her human form as she literally hugged him to the ground, sliding her heels out to pin his wrists to the floor as she laid him flat.

She looked up at Sam. “ _Sih na hat’. Tan tu men_.”

“You sure?” he asked, backing off.

“Yeah. Just go on up to the house and take care of your side. We’ll be along in a bit.” Jayme watched Sam head off. “I love that kid, you know that?” she said, giving Dean’s shoulder a shove. “Just like you do.”

“Go to hell,” Dean groaned.

“Oh come on, can’t handle a little tussle with a neromancer?” She got up slowly, making sure he wasn’t hurt. “Sam fights me better than you do. But then, he’s been working with me, and you’ve been hiding.”

“What does ‘sinna hot tan two men’ mean?” he asked, rolling onto his back. “Sounds kinky.”

“I told him you and I needed some space. I’ve been teaching him my language here and there. Might come in useful when we don’t want the bad guys to understand us.”

“I don’t do phonics, sister.”

“I know. You do pouting and sarcasm and you shit on things that make you uncomfortable. Which is not what your father did, by the way.”

“Jayme, don’t start. This isn’t about . . . that.”

“Oh yes it fucking well is and you know it. You can snow everyone else, Dean, but you can’t snow me or Sam or Bobby. You miss your dad so much you could scream but you shove it down like you shove everything else down and you know what? I am not gonna make you open up, okay?”

He looked at her. “You’re not?”

“No! I don’t want all that shit spewing out of you and I don’t want to see you cry either, because then I’d have to cry with you and then we’d be crying all over each other and that’s just not sexy at all.”

“So what the hell are we doing here?”

Jayme looked up, the light catching her eyes and hair in a soft glow. “Looks like we’re sitting on a dirty shop floor bruised and bleeding. It’s a start.”

“Start to what?”

“Dean, I honestly don’t know. I don’t know, you don’t know, Sam doesn’t know, Bobby doesn’t know . . . which is why we’ve used the time to try to find some balance. That’s what you do in between hunts. Yours and ours. You hunt, you kill, you come home, get cleaned up or healed up and you rest, and you take time. And then you go back out there.”

“That’s what I’ve been wanting to do, but you and Sam have been going off on your own and doing who-knows-what—”

“Which you were welcome to join in any time, Dean. Provided you got your father off your back first.”

Dean sat up. “Back to that again?”

“Isn’t that where things always lead for us? Where they’ll always go?”

“Us?”

“You and me, Dean. We both have Daddy issues and you know it.” She cut off his dismissive sound. “Dean, you spent your life trying to be just like your dad and always feeling like you let him down, and having to be Sam’s guardian, and I spent my life being terrified of mine because of his fucking issues that weren’t even my fault to begin with. So why the hell are we still punishing ourselves for this shit?”

“I didn’t know you had such a dirty mouth.”

“Fuck you.” She looked at Dean, then started laughing.

“You’re gorgeous when you laugh.”

“Yeah, you flirt you. Come on. I’ll buy you a beer or twelve, and tomorrow, if you feel like leaving that goddamn stick behind, I’ll show you just why what Sam and I are doing is so important.”

They closed up the shop, running through the pelting rain to the house. Dean touched her arm, stopping her from going inside. “What were you doing, really?”

“Have you ever noticed how Sam swings his arm out, leaving his whole side open? I’m training him not to do that. Every time he does, I pop him with a switch. Better he gets a couple welts than his side torn open. He’s good, Dean. Only took a little while for him to start protecting himself.”

“I know. I just . . . ”

“You’ve been protecting him your whole life, Dean, and you have no idea how jealous I am. Sometimes I wonder how things might have been different if I’d had a brother like you—like both of you.”

“I would never have let him hurt you, Jayme.”

“I love you, you know that?” She leaned up and kissed him, fast enough to give him no time to retreat, but slow enough to let him know how far the thanks carried.

“Yeah,” he said a little gruffly around the lump that had spontaneously grown inside his throat. “Yeah, okay.”

They went inside, the kitchen lights throwing them into glaring relief—bruised, bloodied, wet, and dirty. Sam was sitting at the table, arms crossed. “You two finished?”

Jayme looked at Dean. “I don’t know. Are we?”

“Yeah.” Dean groaned his way to the fridge and pulled out a beer.

“That was fun.”

“It was.” He put the beer in front of her.

“You two are crazy,” Sam said, shaking his head. “Absolutely certifiable.”

“This reminds me of, oh, that one night in ‘74 in Germany,” she said, taking a drink. “The Bauhaus was never the same. The very best parties are the ones that leave bruises on you the next day. Or where you wake up in someone else’s clothes.”

“What, like—”

“Okay, so I walked out of the hotel wearing Page’s pants, okay, and they were too long.”

“Which ones? The patchwork ones from that one seventies tour?”

Jayme barked a laugh. “No, they were black with silver spangles. Very chic. I kept them.”

Dean grinned at her. “Still got ‘em?”

“Yup. I think he kept mine.”

“I’m going to bed,” Sam said. “You two can have the fashion show. Thanks for not killing each other.”

“He’s just . . . different,” Dean said once he was upstairs.

“Good or bad?”

“I’m not sure yet. At least he’s not brooding.”

She laughed, taking a long drink. “Not as much, anyway. I think this time has done him good. He’s not as totally lost. I would have thought you’d be happy that he didn’t run right back to Stanford.”

“I am, I guess . . . he doesn’t seem to want to.”

She shrugged. “Sam doesn’t know what he wants, and neither do you. This whole thing might not be as over as we’d like.”

“You mean all that ‘children like him’ crap?”

She nodded, watching as he got up, coming back a minute later with her medical kit. “We don’t know what it means and we don’t know that the demon was working alone. He could have a little minion running around ready to pick up the reins.”

“Then we need to find out.”

“Amen, brother. And in the meantime get ourselves as ready as possible.”

“Which means you teaching us to fight.” He took her hand, cleaning the blood away from her arm.

“And you teaching me to shoot. At least as well as you.”

“I don’t know, that’s an awful tall order.” He sat with her hand on his knee, healing the cut. “What’ll you give me?”

“My undying love and affection?”

“I’d rather have Jimmy Page’s pants.”

“Forget it. They’d never fit you.”


	8. Chapter 8

They all slept in the next day, awakened later in the morning by Bobby banging around. If he sensed that anything had happened the night before he gave no sign.

Dean followed Sam and Jayme back outside. The ground was still damp from the night before but thankfully hadn’t turned to mud thanks to the briefness of the rain. Sam took off his jacket and laid it aside; he looked different—it was still him, but his gaze was different, focused in a different way than Dean was used to seeing.

“So, what?” he asked, trying to stay flip. “This where you do katas or the crane kick or what?”

Sam wasn’t smiling. “Not exactly. You might want to take a step back, Dean.”

“What for?”

Jayme’s ahem was deeper and coming from over his head. She tilted her head, grinning. “Unless you want me to pick you up and carry you.”

Dean held up his hands. “No way. I get the message.” He stepped off to the side, watching with mounting unease as Jayme and Sam took up positions across from each other. As tall as Sam was, towering over most people, Jayme made him look small.

Too damn small.

It struck him exactly what was happening a second too late to do anything about it; not that he, by himself and unarmed, could do anything anyway. Fear, the worst kind he knew, tingled down his spine and limbs, both freezing him in place and jolting him with enough adrenaline to make it feel like he could leap over Jayme’s head.

She whipped one of those long arms out, right for Sam’s head. The non-panicked part of Dean’s brain registered that it was obviously moving far slower than the speed Jayme was perfectly capable of, but that was drowned out by the alarm that only threats to his family could produce.

Instead of losing his head or having his face ripped off, Sam moved. Not an awkward duck or scramble, but a lithe bending of his long torso and legs so that Jayme’s arm passed harmlessly over his head. He whipped back around to balance, bending into a crouch that placed him squarely in the path of her reverse blow; he grabbed her arm and slid under it, holding onto it as his legs jammed out straight, then bucked upwards with his torso, neatly landing on his feet. Jayme was still at the end of her swing and Sam’s closed fist struck her sideways, as if he held a knife that was now rammed between her ribs.

She arched as if stabbed, roaring and whipping back around to try to hit him. Sam turned, the blow rendered ineffective by his dodge and disastrous for Jayme; off-balance, he grabbed her arm and threw his weight forward, adding to her momentum and pitching her off her feet. Once on the ground he moved as if holding a gun, a kill shot aimed at her ear.

“You didn’t have to be so rough,” Jayme said, sitting up.

“Bullshit,” Sam said. “I couldn’t hurt you one on one like that if I tried.”

“Not without poking me in the eye, no,” she said. She looked over her shoulder at Dean. “Well?”

Sam was standing. Unscathed, and his hair wasn’t even mussed. Jayme, all seven-foot-whatever of her, was kneeling in the dirt. “That was fake. It’s gotta be fake, right?”

“It’s a practiced set of moves, yes,” Jayme said, standing. “And I wasn’t going full strength, obviously. But I’ve been training Sam to fight things that are bigger and several orders of magnitude stronger and to come out alive. How to fall and land and be thrown without getting killed.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “‘Be thrown’?”

Jayme’s fangs reappeared. “Sam, you want to show him? It’s okay if you’re not up for it.”

Sam moved closer. “No, I’m good. Let’s do it.”

Once again before Dean could say anything, Jayme picked Sam up, holding him by the torso, then flung him directly at the wall behind them, a distance of nearly twenty feet. Dean braced himself for the crunch of broken ribs or legs, neither of which came as Sam actually turned in midair, just enough to be able to extend his left leg and touch the wall with his foot, using his leg and left arm to absorb the blow and slow him down, so that he was able to drop harmlessly to the pile of blankets and cardboard and what looked like an old mattress below. It wasn’t the most graceful thing that Dean had ever seen, but it got the job done.

“Before you ask; no wires, no movie magic, no forcefields,” Jayme said.

“Then how?”

“Physics, understanding the laws of motion, and the fact that your brother is in exceptionally good shape to begin with. Your father trained you both well; I’m just adding to what’s already there. Honing his reflexes and helping him focus.” She paused. “And showing him that he doesn’t have to think of himself as a freak, because there are those out there who don’t see him—or you—that way.”

Dean faced his brother as he joined them. “So you’re all ready to head out and go all Kung Fu on things, huh?”

Sam just shook his head. “Not yet. I still have a long way to go. Dean, I need this. When we first got here everything was just upside down and messed up and . . . and I haven’t felt this grounded since . . . I don’t know when. I feel like I’m finding out where the ground is again. Being able to think, you know? Look, I want you with us, Jayme does, and if you don’t that’s fine, but I think you should at least try. If we’re gonna keep hunting it won’t work unless we’re all together.”

“Thought you didn’t want to hunt anymore. Thought you couldn’t wait to get away.”

“Boy’s allowed to change his mind,” Jayme murmured. “I took him on a little mental trip to Katarin. Different perspective and all that.”

“So you’re in now?” Dean said. “Law school’s off the table?”

Sam met Dean’s eyes. “It’s off. I’m in.” He held out his hand. “Question is, are you?”

Dean hesitated, then took it. “Yeah. Okay.”

Sam ignored the lack of enthusiasm. “Good.” He went over to his jacket. “This is one of Dad’s phones. I finally managed to hack into the voice mail. I think we might have something.”


End file.
